Tiger in Barbed Wire
by Nihilistic Fatality
Summary: Sequel to Zero Game. 1969- Caught fast in Vietnam, America's secret war against the Kremlin is put on the back burner. With resources strained, Jack is sent on a solo mission in enemy territory. There he finds something someone tried very hard to misplace
1. Andrantomy

**Chapter 1 – Andrantomy**

The light was a sickly yellow glow that stained the clean patches of the floor. Blood was smeared across the off-white linoleum, orange streaks spotted by dark red droplets. Brown flakes of past offenses skirted around the edges with handprints dashed along the kitchen cabinets. The majority of the blood pooled beneath a wooden chair that sat crooked because of the two cracking hind legs. The man strapped to the chair was bound by an absurd amount of blood-slicked duct tape, limp against the restraints. In the background, a radio flooded the room with the sounds of "Blue Christmas".

The larger of the captors snorted in annoyance, turning to his leader, who was primly seated on the couch. "What now?" the man asked, gesturing to their victim with a snarl of disgust. "He keeps up that bleeding we won't get anything out of him. And he hasn't said much to start with, sir."

The leader brushed long fingers over his uniform, inspecting the crisp green wool with a bland gaze. "This was never about him talking, Kozlov." Settling his cap on his head, the leader stood. His boots clicked against the floor as he stepped closer to the captive. "I was just bored." Grinning, he cupped the captive's chin, bringing the man's face up. The jaw bone shifted, uneven on his fingertips. If Cougar was lucky, the bone was only split in one place. A single dark eye glared upward, the other lost in a swollen mass of blackened flesh.

"He told us all about you, kitten. We were just wondering if you'd do the same. The loyalty seems one-sided, Cougar."

Cougar attempted to growl, but a vicious gurgle emerged in its stead. He spit out a mouthful of frothy blood. A large glob of it landed on Raikov's glove and he jerked his hand back. Promptly, Cougar's chin returned to his chest, too weak to hold his head up on his own. Raikov gave a sniff of disgust. Gracefully, Raikov plucked the soiled glove off with his other hand before cracking it against the side of Cougar's face. The whole business was grotesque. The gloves were dropped to the floor with a wet squelch.

"I think we're done here. Make him feel it. Let's give the dogs a challenge with this corpse." Winking over his shoulder, Raikov strode out of the kitchen and toward the stairs that led to the deck. He didn't bother fighting the gentle grin as he went.

Once his commander left the room, Kozlov returned his attention to Cougar. "More than one way to skin a cat," Kozlov joked, wandering over to the stove. Water was boiling on one of the burners, wooden knife handles stuck out all around the edges. Plucking one up, Kozlov pressed the burning blade flat against Cougar's cheek. Cougar let out a sharp cry, throwing his head back with newfound strength. Red flesh was revealed as Kozlov pulled the blade away. He ran the sharpened edge gently against the abused area, a thin red line appearing in its wake. It was a good test. Returning the knife to its place in the pot, Kozlov plucked up a faintly glowing strip of metal. He eyed it up and down, nodding in approval before he slammed it down against Cougar's thigh. The man found the energy to arch against his bonds.

Burned flesh and cloth was thick in the air. Cougar's already shredded pants seared away. The skin, split from the force of the blow, popped and darkened. Flesh curled away from the source of the heat, widening most in the center. Kozlov pulled the metal away and viewed the eye-shaped wound with muted pleasure. The yell died in Cougar's throat as he sagged helplessly against the duct tape. He panted, the noise rough, echoed by a soft rattling in his chest.

Brow furrowed with curiosity, Kozlov gripped Cougar's chin and forced the man to look up. He glanced between the metal bar and Cougar's good eye for only a moment before he grinned. The metal was pressed against Cougar's tightly shut eyelid. The keen Cougar gave was inhuman as his skin gave way to acrid heat. What didn't immediately turn to ash divided, pulling away from the metal. There was an audible pop, followed immediately by a burst of clear fluid. The fluid sizzled on the bar, transforming into foul smelling steam. Kozlov pulled away slowly and moved to reheat the strip against a bare burner.

Up on the deck, Raikov leaned against the railing. The false dawn lightened the sky, highlighting where the sky met the waves. A hoarse cry wandered up from below deck. Raikov scoffed gently at it, leaning his cheek against his palm. They would be within American waters in a short while, and he hoped the racket wouldn't draw undue attention. Sighing, he opened his eyes to watch the stars dim.

"Oh the things I do for my country," he muttered gently, smiling up at the sky as though it held some fond memory. The boat rocked and all grew quiet below deck.

* * *

The helicopter kept low, skimming above the trees of the jungle. The noise was deafening but the lack of it, thanks to the ear plugs, was decidedly more unsettling. Jack's leg swayed, outside the open helicopter side, knuckles white as they gripped the safety handle. Heights weren't his favorite place to be, but he could endure them with a kit. Without a parachute, they made him edgy.

The pilot was young - who wasn't in a war?- but he seemed to be good at what he did. A bit cocky, but that was standard issue for pilots. The vegetation swayed below them. Somewhere down there lay the hidden POW camp, full to its brim with Russian officers that had planned to defect.

If the intelligence was anything to go by, it was a poorly guarded fountain of information on the inner workings of the Kremlin. But the source was questionable, or so Jack had been told, thus a solo mission to scout out the area. If it proved reliable, he was to retrieve who he could and return to the rendezvous point for pick up. If not, well, one man had an easier time escaping than a handful.

The helicopter banked left. Jack tensed, heart leaping into his throat as he slid an inch closer to the edge. The trees thinned beneath them. He rubbed a thumb over the spot on his collar bone where his microphone should have rested. The area was notorious for communication problems, not to mention the nearest base would be too far off to receive any broadcasts, regardless.

A bird leveled off to fly parallel to the helicopter. The helicopter adjusted its course again, and Jack could see the gap in the tree line where he was to be dropped. The bird caught a tree branch in its claws and halted its pursuit of the strange object. Grass and bushes flattened themselves against the earth as the helicopter neared the ground. The landing skids hovered four feet from the jungle floor. The pilot turned in his seat to flash Jack a grin and a thumbs-up. Jack nodded, moving to his feet. Ducking his head down, Jack hopped out of the helicopter, carefully to keep his head low and avoid the blades. He charged into the forest as soon as his boots hit earth.

A moment later the helicopter began to gain altitude, disappearing from Jack's sight. The sound lingered, threading through the trees. Snake disappeared into the forest.

* * *

The CIA seal curled and blackened as the fire ate away at the paper. The man gathered up the charred remains, crushing them to ash in his firm grasp. He dumped the ashes in his empty garbage can and tied up the clear bag. The janitor had come and gone before he'd entered the office.

After checking the hallway, he made a hasty exit. The bag was shoved into his jacket pocket as he turned to lock the door behind him. The chipper night staff waved him on, chorusing goodbyes after him. The entire building left unaware that the last trace of Special Agent Ocelot had been erased. His entire existence, as far as the world knew, was a flight of fancy. All evidence that said contrary was ash on the wind.

* * *

"Kimba, down."

The large silver and white Siberian Husky didn't bother to lift his head from his paws. Instead, the dog groaned and rolled onto his side. His tail wagged lethargically behind him. From the kitchen, David swore. It was cold enough inside that he could see his breath, but the seventeen year old boy stubbornly refused to turn on the heat. The day wasn't quite half over and he didn't plan to be staying long. He needed to head out soon if he wanted to avoid the calls his mother was sure to place. It had taken David long enough to convince his father to let him stay home for Christmas, he didn't want to risk it by speaking to his mother just yet. After Christmas maybe, but until then all bests were off.

"Kimba, down," the teen repeated. Kimba yawned. David rolled his eyes, cutting the sandwich he'd been making. Kimba perked as his owner entered the room, though the animal's focus was clearly on the food.

"Down."

The dog finally relented. Kimba hopped off the couch and promptly sat down by David's feet. Taking up the recently vacated spot on the couch, David took a large bite of his food. Eating quickly was never a problem. Kimba shuffled closer, until he could set his head down on David's leg. Mismatched eyes looked up pitifully, lingering on the food.

Suddenly, Kimba's ears perked. The dog turned his head to watch as the mail slot opened and letters cascaded to the floor. Around a mouthful of food, David commanded, "Fetch."

Kimba cocked his head to the side, unimpressed. Aggravated, David tossed a scrap of meat in the direction of the letters. When the floor was licked clean, Kimba pawed at the letters briefly. A majority of them flipped up onto their sides and were snapped up in the animal's jaws. Retuning dutifully, the dog sat once more. It seemed he'd grown fond of the mail, however, as his jaw remained closed when David tugged at the envelopes. David tugged again. Kimba made a noise of discontent and didn't budge.

"Fine, damn dog." A sacrifice of the sandwich corner seemed enough to tame the beast, abandoning the mail in favor of turkey. With one hand, David sorted through it. Bill, bill, Christmas card, coupons. Tossing the pile onto the coffee table, David stood. The last of his meal was shoved into his mouth.

The phone gave a shrill cry from the kitchen. Snatching the leash off the back of the couch, David bolted toward the door. He paused long enough to grab his coat and the remaining letters off the floor before he was out the door. Kimba was hot on his heels.

"Car," David grunted out. "We're going to Hal's."

The dog barked once, as if he knew what had been said. Hal had been the one to name husky, determined that David and his father wouldn't simply call the animal 'Dog'. Dave just let him do it. It was certainly easier than listening to the entire story of some white lion.

David opened the door to his sedan. Kimba scrambled over the to the passenger seat, tail wagging furiously in his wake. The car roared to life, smoking in the cold, and pulled out onto the road. It was only then that David gave the other mail a passing glance.

When he came to the second letter, he almost crashed into a tree.

_Aaron_ _Millies_ was written in neat, swooping letters in the upper left corner. In equally tidy scrawl was his mother's old address. With shaking hands, David pulled over to the side of the road. He opened the envelope with a quick flick of his knife and scrambled to get to the letter inside.

_Hey brat,_ it began. The words ignited something in David's mind, and he could almost hear the other man's voice. But it was distant and distorted, crackling like an old radio. The name on the return address made sudden sense. David had no uncles, at least not any connected by blood, let alone any that shared his father's last name.

"Adam," he breathed. Beside him, Kimba whimpered.

* * *

The underbrush yielded to the breeze, rustling in subdued discontent. One of the patrol's dogs stiffened. Nose to the wind, the tan animal took a few halting steps away from its handler before the leash tightened. The handler voiced a quiet complaint, noting the other dog's relaxed demeanor.

Alarmed, the dog persisted to struggle against its rope collar. The urgent drone of whining was only interrupted by choked gasps that emerged when the collar appeared to be winning. Its handler gave a sharp tug, dragging the animal back to his side.

The other half of the patrol pressed on without them.

Hidden safely by a small clutch of saplings, Snake slowly closed the camouflage paint kit and shoved it into his left breast pocket. He wiped the last greasy bit of green paint off his fingertips. Hunkered low as he was, catching a clean look of the stray Vietnamese soldier was impossible. Only a column of blocked light could be seen moving between the large leaves and tall grass.

The dog's nails dug into the mud, flinging clumps out behind it as the handler was dragged forward. Lean as the animal was, its master appeared to be having trouble controlling it.

Slowly, Snake slid his pistol out of the holster. The sight caught the edge of the worn leather and Snake bumped a sapling with his elbow in his hurry to free it. The patrolman was suddenly very near, eyes wide as he held the dog at bay. Two blue points bore out at him from a mass of distorted shadows.

An odd noise hissed out from the mass a second before the patrolman's shoulder jerked back. His grip on the dog was released as he made his escape. Another dull impact caught his side, sending the patrolman into the mud.

A third suppressed shot sounded as Snake was knocked onto his back. One arm held across the beast's chest was all that kept eager fangs from finding Snake's face. Hot, foul breath skimmed along Snake's cheeks, untrimmed nails burned into his chest even through the fabric. His arm throbbed, though he couldn't clearly remember being bitten. He pulled his right elbow back, trying to get a clean shot at the animal's head without losing something of his own in the process.

The impact pushed the dog's head back as the bullet tore through its bottom jaw and exited through the top of its head. It didn't die immediately, however, biting at the air for a full minute as its nails curled tightly into Snake's flesh. Ears pinned, the dog spent a spray of blood out with a firm shake of its head before whimpering and sagging onto Snake. The animal's broken jaw pressed awkwardly against his nose.

Panting, Snake closed his eyes and tried to still his nerves. The warm weight on top of him twitched, melting into hot streams of blood that washed away his camouflage. He shoved the body to the side and rolled onto his knees.

"Fuck," Snake swore, wiping at his eyes with the back of his sleeve. He blinked hard, still unable to see through all the blood.

* * *

"No more paperwork," Roy Campbell muttered, plopping another stack of papers in the box labeled '_out_.' He dropped the pen like it burned, rubbing at his aching wrist. A flood of transfers and mishandled information created a tidal wave of paperwork. All of them needed at least one signature, and most required upwards of three. Needless, to say, Roy had been cooped up in his office for the majority of the day.

A flashing light on the phone drew Roy's attention. He stabbed at it with his pen as soon as the receiver was off the hook.

"Sir!" came the irate voice of his secretary, "Sir, Mr. Millies' son--"

The oak door flew open, bouncing off the wall with a loud bang. David rushed in, slamming the door shut with equal vigor. He fumbled with the lock as Roy shot him a flat look.

"Is here for a visit? It's fine. Hold my calls." Not waiting for a response, Roy dropped the phone back on its hook. David was suddenly in front of his desk looking quite frantic. A wrinkled letter was cast on the oak tabletop.

"I got this today."

Warily, Roy picked up the letter. His hand tightened involuntarily, further crinkling the aged paper. "Nineteen sixty-five?" Roy read, brow creasing.

"Two months before he went missing," David added. He sat down, standing almost as soon as he was settled. Pacing seemed the best use of his energy. Absently, he reached for a cigarette. Roy cleared his throat. Reluctantly, David shoved his hands into his pockets.

"If you're reading this, my human failsafe to protect your father has been terminated," Roy read. "Inform Campbell, if the fool is still alive, that John is in danger. Tell no one else." He scrubbed a hand over his face. There was a quick note for Roy himself, but nothing else was written. It wasn't signed. "This is the only letter you've gotten from him?"

David nodded, finally planting himself at the edge of the desk. He set his jaw, and Roy saw a glimmer of Jack.

"This is the first I've heard from him since I was ten. The stamp isn't marked."

"Then it wasn't mailed through the post office."

"He's not stupid. Who was his failsafe?"

"I don't know. Not me, obviously. I'd need to call in offsite files, crosscheck recent deaths. Even then--"

"So call in offsite files," David growled. He crossed his arms, hands clenched into fists. "This means he could still be out there."

Roy sighed, "I'll look into it. Just don't get your hopes up, all right? Four years is a long time to be missing, especially considering who he's backstabbed. In all likelihood…" The implications were there in the silence as Roy folded the letter and shoved it in his inner jacket pocket. David gave a curt nod, the motion was choppy at best. "I'll look into it anyway."

"Thanks," David replied stiffly.

Roy nodded. "I'll hang on to the letter. Let's keep this mum for now. I don't need any higher ups catching wind of it and following it back to me. Last thing I need is more of them sticking their noses in what I do."

"Understood." It was serious, they both knew, but David's tone of voice reaffirmed that fact. He sounded old, hoarse, weathered. He sounded like his father, Roy realized. It wasn't a slow self destruct that he needed to see twice. Slowly, the anger and worry that kept David's posture ramrod straight seeped away. Roy watched as David's shoulders sagged.

"The letter is all typed," Roy ventured.

David frowned. His voice was monotone, suspicion only belied by slant of his brows. "Yeah. What about it?"

Roy drummed his fingertips against the desktop. One didn't work for the CIA without becoming wary when things fell into your lap. It was a matter of walking the fine line between caution and paranoia. All precautions had to be taken. Steeling himself, he said, "There's always the chance it's forged. Without a handwriting sample, we're going to have to make this low priority."

David retorted with an indignant, "You're kidding me," before he had time to think about it. Once more, the world was leaving his family to rot. His fist itched to hit something. "What about the name on the envelope?"

"Envelope?" Roy resisted the urge to pull the letter back out of his pocket. It hadn't been in an envelope, he was certain. "You're going to have to show it to me for that to do any good, kid."

"I thought--" Making a noise of frustration, David patted himself down. He pulled a small rectangle of paper from his jeans and straightened it using the edge of Roy's desk. "This? This will work right?"

Roy grabbed David's wrist to still the paper flailing under his nose. He plucked it from David's hand and studied the loops and curls of the lettering on the return address. Finally, he tucked it away in a desk drawer.

"Are you going to your mother's?"

David's mouth twitched. "No," he replied, "I'm staying home this year."

"Yeah? Well, that worked in our favor. I don't want to think about what would happen if your dad," Roy tapped his jacket approximately where the letter was, "got to this first."

"It'd push him over. Knowing Adam made plans like _this_ when the bastard couldn't even save his own ass."

"Dave," scolded Roy at the language, but his heart wasn't in it. David shrugged.

"It's true. Dad's not a big picture guy. He wouldn't get why Adam planned this out years in advance." David turned his back to Roy, physically trying to block the protest Roy would put up. "I know," he snapped. "He gets it, but not on the right level. He's more 'the moment' guy."

"And you're not?"

Pushing off the desk, David headed toward the door. "My father raised no fool." Roy could see the smile in the line of Dave's back. Something told him, Dave didn't mean Jack. "Tell me if you find anything. "

"Will do, kid," Roy agreed, shooting a salute at the other's retreating form. The letter weighed heavier on his chest, but his heart felt lighter.


	2. Yesterfang

Chapter 2 – Yesterfang

Dawn met the Vietnamese jungle with reluctance. Light refused to filter between the leaves until the sun had risen beyond the grasp of the horizon, and lingered just above the distant mountains. The gentle roll of the ground was broken abruptly by the sharp rise of a concrete bunker. From where Snake sat, it was hard to tell the cracks from the plants that clung to its exterior. There were no posted guards, and the patrols seemed erratic at best. He didn't have the time to get their rhythm.

The only visible door was peppered with chips and dents but the metal appeared sound despite it. There were two small windows along the south side of the building, ground level but too narrow for his shoulders to fit through. The north wall mirrored the south. Thankfully the west showed promise. The one window along the ground was misshapen, eaten away on the sides so that Snake might be able to fit through. A makeshift patch of dried mud had been used. Digging a little was much safer than a frontal assault. Good as he was, trying to kick in the door could only result in a broken leg, at best.

Snake's knees ached as he moved closer. Briefly, he felt too old for this before biting back on the notion and focusing. The light wasn't strong enough for him to see anything beyond blackness in the pit. He took a deep breath and rolled out from the brush into the cleared perimeter around the building. No alarms sounded as he kicked in the brittle mud patches and wormed his way inside.

He was rendered blind by the abrupt lack of light. Wary, Snake rested a hand on his pistol as the world slowly reappeared. The room was full of stacks of crates. Large red characters were stamped on the cheap wood, a sea of bright confusion. A soft halo of light marked the door. Snake headed for it, hesitating only to press his ear up against it. The silence told him nothing.

The door was placed midway down a bare corridor. The lights were sparse, buzzing and flickering, some burned out entirely. Even so, there was no cover and Snake didn't wish to be caught there. He went right at random.

The hall curved, leading to a row of firmly shut doors before it went to a dead end. As Snake moved forward to the first one, he noted a foul stench permeating the air. Some odd mixture of burning and copper, thick enough that he gagged, almost able to taste it thick upon his tongue. Snake clamped a hand over his nose in hopes the scent of leather would override the one he couldn't place. No such luck.

His hand had only touched the doorknob when a shout torn the quiet asunder. His head snapped to the side. Acting on instinct, Snake drew his gun and ran toward the last door in the row. Barreling into the room, he kicked the door shut behind him and shot at the gaping Vietnamese soldier. The soldier crumpled like rice paper.

A quick sweep of the room revealed only one other occupant. The man was older, grey haired with a mustache of the same shade. Bruises could be seen on him, but he was still dressed in a suit that was only slightly mussed. The man either stole all the luck from Ireland or he was a new arrival.

"Are you alright?" Snake asked. The man nodded, slowly standing to approach his savior. "What's your name?"

"Nikolai Sokolov," the man informed, his voice shaking as much as his hands, "Russian--"

"Not important," Snake snapped. Sokolov watched nervously as Snake soured the dead man's pockets. Save for a few scraps of paper, they were empty. Sokolov stared hard at the dried blood that clung to Snake's uniform, forgetting to blink. He startled when Snake spoke. "Do you know your way around?"

"Not well. Perhaps enough to leave."

"Good." Snake motioned toward the door. "Let's go." There was no explanation given, but the prisoner seemed to know that Snake offered salvation. Sokolov nodded timorously, and followed after. After a quick glance down the hall, Snake moved to the next door. Sokolov threw an arm out to block him.

"You missed the purge," he hissed.

"The purge?"

"Most of the prisoners were killed just after I was brought here."

Brushing Sokolov aside, Snake opened the door. The paint curling odor suddenly made perfect sense. Piled high in the middle of the room were corpses. They all appeared in various states of decay, some bordering skeletal, others were bloated and blue, some fresh. One hand with nothing but broken fingers stretched toward them from the contorted mound, the skin literally crawling with maggots.

Sokolov's face became bloodless as he threw himself backward. Snake watched the man retreat to the corner to retch. It was the lesser of two evils. Grunting, Snake shut the door again. The image stuck firmly in his mind.

He moved to the first door, but the room held nothing.

Sokolov was skittish enough for the both of them as Snake led him down corridor to the left wing. He prayed brokenly until Snake's hand stifled his words and the soldier made a silencing motion with his gun. There had only been one guard thus far, a fact that didn't sit well with Snake. It meant the jungle was either crawling with them, or they were guarding someone far more important than Sokolov on the other end.

When they reached the corner, Snake ordered Sokolov to wait and pressed on. Doors lined both sides of the hall, totaling seven in all. The three to Snake's left were freshly painted blue, labeled with neat characters that he couldn't identity let alone read. A gnawing feeling in his gut steered him away from them. He pushed open the first bare door.

The room proved empty as well. Strange hooks jutted from the walls and ceiling, and a cot sat in the corner. Snake swallowed down a curse and moved to the next. For the first time since infiltrating the small bunker, he was confronted with a locked door. He holstered his gun and pulled out a knife. Snake's lock picking skills were sorely lacking, but the lock was rusted and old. Between the knife and a good shove from Snake's shoulder, it lost.

The effort bore fruit.

Strung up like a marionette, a naked man was bound to the ceiling by thick ropes. His legs were latched down by two more frayed cords, spread to a point that looked uncomfortable. Pale skin was littered with unusual scars, patterned like an animal's pelt. His chin was tucked close to his chest, face hidden by a stringy mat of dirty hair. As if aware of Snake's presence, he groaned weakly and struggled against the web that held him.

Snake surged forward, cutting the ropes that held the man's legs. The ropes continued to cling, content to stay where they'd burrowed. Snake pulled them away with the barest hint of remorse. He'd bandage the sores once they were safely out, otherwise his hard work would be lost to the jungle's myriad of illnesses. The man made a noise of alarm that faded into an odd rumbling.

"Easy," Snake soothed, wrapping an arm around the man's middle as he reached up to saw through the rope that bound his wrists together. The man was half starved, bony but not yet a walking skeleton. He smelled of old pain and sweat. This close, Snake could tell that his shoulders were dislocated. The man fell with a groan to Snake's shoulder. Snake wrapped an arm around the man's legs to keep him in place.

"It's alright, easy."

A scrape of metal on concrete echoed harshly down the hall. Snake's stomach dropped. A questioning chatter of Vietnamese was heard as Snake drew his gun. Footsteps marched nearer, sounding to eternity and back before the next one fell. Slowly, the doorframe darkened. The man only had enough time to widen his eyes before the bullet tore through his stomach. He yelled, loud and scared and feral, as Snake and his burden bolted in the opposite direction. At the commotion, two more soldiers exited the blue doors, only one stayed to help the downed soldier stem the bleeding.

Snake bellowed out, "Move!" as he tore around the corner. Sokolov complied readily, darting into the nearest door without instruction. Snake slammed the door after them like it was on fire, kicking down a stack of boxes to help stall their pursuers further. "Out the window, we need to get him out," he shrugged his shoulder, just in case Sokolov hadn't noticed the prisoner slung over it.

Distraught to the point of silence, Sokolov scrambled out the window just as the thumps started against the door. The crates weren't going to hold forever. As if having the thought gave it power, the door was shoved open an inch. A loud string of angry words poured forth. Snake heaved the limp body toward the window, watching from the corner of his eye as Sokolov pulled the man out. Snake fired three shots at the door before he made a flying leap after the men he'd rescued.

He couldn't recall much after that, just a blur of pictures, orders and movements. And the overwhelming sibilate of the jungle as they tore through the vegetation.

* * *

Easing open the door, Mei Ling uttered a quiet "Sir?"

The mysterious rhythm sputtered to a halt, Roy shot her a groggy look from across the room. He was slumped against the wall with his legs were sprawled out in front of him, carefully woven in between stacks of lopsided files. Loose pieces of paper covered the desk top, wadded sheets overflowed from the wastebasket and piled high around it.

Mei Ling stepped into the room with a sharp click of her heels and shut the door quietly behind her. Gingerly, she picked her way across the room toward Roy.

"Sir?" she repeated, smoothing her long black skirt. The feel of the fabric curbed her growing nervousness. When Roy refused to answer, she grabbed the nearest paper that glared up at her with a red stamp that marked it as classified. "Operation: Iron Cowboy?"

"It took place almost ten years ago, and ended in the May of 1960. An American spy infiltrated the Russian GRU and the KGB, smuggled out weapons blueprints, faked his death and maintained contact with one agency to continue feeding them false information." Startled, Mei Ling's gaze snapped to her boss' form. His eyes remained resolutely on the floor, but his fingers curled.

"Oh?" Mei Ling prodded. Roy sighed, hitting his head against the wall. That explained the odd beat she'd been hearing on and off for the past few hours.

"What's the name on the paper?"

She hesitated, scanning the document before giving Roy another wary glance. "Benjamin J. Hardaway."

"No." Another thud echoed the room, followed by two more in quick succession as Roy hit his head against the wall behind him halfheartedly. This wasn't what he knew, but who else would have access to the files? "No, no, that's not right. Special designation?"

"Coyote," Mei Ling replied softly. With her mouth set in a line, she placed the paper on top of the desk. It was lost in a sea of similar documents as soon as her fingers left it. "I could be wrong, but I thought Coyote was a new name in the system."

Roy's eyes snapped to her, glinting with feverish light. "It is. That would be the problem." He ran a hand over his jaw, the stubble rough against his palm. "The report is missing details."

"Details?" Mei Ling turned back to the desk, but was unable to spot the report she'd just set down. The chair was piled high with still bound folders, proving they were as of yet unopened, and the floor could only be glimpsed in patches at best. Roy shoved aside a few piles, motioning for her to sit. Mei Ling didn't bother clearing the space entirely before sitting.

"I wasn't part of it. I hadn't been here long enough to do much beyond low priority work. Zero was more than in charge of Iron Cowboy, he was part of it. It was just a two man team, the spy and his handler. The spy was just some kid, only seventeen."

Mei Ling interrupted with a muted echo of "Seventeen? That's highly--"

"It's war." Roy snapped. Mei Ling nodded, patting Roy's arm in a meager offering of comfort. He placed his hand over hers and continued. "Jack was in the area of the drop point and got caught up in it. Just his luck, I guess. But he ended up taking the kid in like a stray puppy. The kid's name was not Benjamin Hardaway and he wasn't twenty-five."

"Adam?" Mei Ling ventured. She'd never met the man, apparently arriving in the wake of his deployment, but she knew him in much the same fashion that she knew her grandfather, who died when she was too young to recall. Her familiarity with Adam was based upon the stories Jack and Roy shared with her. Even Jack's son had indulged her in a tale or two when they were both looking to kill time.

"Yeah." Roy scrubbed a hand over his face. "I mean, I think. I've heard that story so many times...I need you to find out who requested these records before I did."

"Of course. Might I ask why?"

"Not until I'm sure I'm sane."

Mei Ling pulled her hand out from under Roy's and gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze. Without another word, she stood and slowly made her way out of the room. When the muffled sound of her heels stopped, Roy dropped his head to his hands.

* * *

By the time they stopped running the sun was perched atop the sky, glaring down on the jungle mercilessly. Sokolov had removed his jacket and his shirt was open but soaked through and stuck to his skin, which was already turning a disconcerting shade of red. Snake halted their trek, directing the other man toward a small bit of shelter. Sokolov all but fell to his knees.

"Watch him," Snake ordered roughly. He cleared his throat then lowered the man from shoulder as smoothly as he could. He dropped his backpack next. Sweat dripped from his nose. Snake shook his head and set about gathering a few large leaves for a quick canopy. With the sweltering heat, they wouldn't be able to move well. It was best to outwait the sun and travel by night.

Snake unbuttoned his field jacket, hanging the sodden item on a nearby bush. The slight breeze helped relieve some of the heat. The gloves fell away next. One large hand wiped the sweat away from Snake's face, destroying the trails of bare skin that had been made in the face paint. His hand came away greasy and brown. Snake wiped his hand across his shirt, then removed the stained fabric entirely.

"There's water in the bag."

Immensely grateful for the information, Sokolov grinned. With a stilted movement, Sokolov lunged for the bag and dug through until he found one of the water bottles. The lid was flung to the side as he took a large gulp. Watching him drink, Snake was suddenly reminded that turkeys could drown themselves by looking up in the rain. Sokolov choked, but was in no way deterred.

"Ease up on that. It has to last you until tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Sokolov gurgled. Snake dropped to the ground by their unconscious companion. He took one look at the mess of hair and pulled out a knife. A strangled noise of fear emerged from Sokolov. Snake was getting the distinct impression that the man was a coward, and it was beginning to wear on his nerves. Snorting, Snake pulled the limp man closer, tugging the body up to rest against his stomach.

Once, an eternity ago, when Snake was just a rookie in the Special Forces, he'd tried to shave with his knife. He'd used a straight edge razor once or twice without lopping his head off and he'd gotten cocky. The knife, however sharp, proved trickier to maneuver. The nick on his chin bled like nothing he knew, and he'd spent the rest of the mission with an uneven beard.

But for hair a knife would do. Balancing the limp head between his bicep and his chest, Snake grabbed the matted clump of hair. Shaving the man's head was an arduous process, something far too close to skinning an animal. The cut was uneven, but short enough that it shouldn't matter. Anything had to be better than the pull of a rat's nest. Sokolov sat nursing his bottle of water, twitching like a rodent. The man against Snake started his quiet chatter again. The flow of words was ceaseless with no discernible rhythm.

"You should get some sleep. We have a long way to go tonight," Snake informed, still focused on his task. Any distraction that allowed him respite from figuring out the map was welcome. The hurried escape must have thrown them off course, but Snake wasn't all too eager to look and find they'd wandered into communist China.

Agreeing silently, Sokolov wadded up his discarded jacket and shoved it underneath his head. He forced his eyes closed and shifted against the hard ground. A rock was digging into his ribs, but on whole it was better than yielding earth and mud. Shortly after Sokolov's breathing evened out, Snake caught on to the rhythm of the words. They were numbers. A long beat of numbers in no recognizable order.

Bemused, Snake tossed the mess of hair to the side and sheathed his knife. He held off curiosity for a minute before turning the man's head to the side. The profile was unmistakable. He traced a calloused thumb down the man's nose.

"…Adam."

* * *

Hours later, Sokolov was awoken with a sharp kick to his shin. He lurched up, a shout lodged somewhere in his dry throat. Snake was staring down at him with a hint of irritation. "Get up," he growled. Obediently, Sokolov scrambled to reply. As soon as he was standing, the backpack Snake had been carrying was shoved against his chest. Wheezing, Sokolov clutched at it. The rough fabric bit at his soft hands.

"Where's the other man?"

Snake gave a distracted wave. For a moment, Sokolov thought the man stretched out on the ground was dead. He was clothed in spare fatigues that looked too big on him. Sharp cheekbones worsened the sallow look of his face. What made Sokolov's stomach churn anxiously were the folded hands resting upon the man's stomach. All the loose fabric made it hard to say if he was breathing.

"Is he…?"

Snake grunted, lost in the process of putting on his shirt. The shirt was stiff from sweat, pungent and itching as soon as it touched his flesh. He grit his teeth and ignored it. The jacket went on before he paid Sokolov any more attention.

"He's fine," Snake assured. He sounded confident, whatever he felt, and it was enough to soothe Sokolov's rapidly fraying nerves. "Stand back." The limp body was rolled onto its front as Snake pulled the man up and into a fireman's carry. After a moment of adjusting the weight, Snake moved forward.

"Let's go!" Sokolov bolted after, intimidated by the deepening jungle but more afraid of being left.

Nguyễn Phạm Bao strained to control the lanky red hound that had fallen under his care. Standing at a mere five foot two, he was ill equipped to handle the large dog currently attempting to drag him through the jungle. The rope that served as a leash ground into his palm.

"Quan! Down!" he ordered stiffly, digging his heels into the soft ground. A year with the regular army had trimmed Bao down to lean muscle and damaged nerves. Landmines had taken out most he had served with. The dog jumped again, whining viciously. The noise was repeated by the brown dog that Bao's partner held at bay.

"Do you think it's something, or just another animal?"

Quan's jaw snapped at the air as the animal mimed a howl. They were bred to be silent. Forepaws scrambled against the air in a vain search for traction as Quan balanced on his hind legs. Bao gave another sharp jerk. The animal choked, but returned to the ground. Growling softly himself, Bao carefully transferred the rope to his other hand and worked the abused limb. It ached to flex his fingers.

"We should look," Bao said with insincere certainty. His partner nodded, letting out his dog's rope. Quan gave a long, plaintive whine before Bao let his rope out as well. The dogs moved in different directions initially, dragging their handlers with them, then swerved back to meet. Quan bumped into the darker dog a time or two before they seemed to settle on a direction.

"It's probably rats," the partner suggested. Bao nodded, hoping the other was right.

"Large ones," Bao added, "they always get large outside the camps."

The hard lines of tension slowly eased from their shoulders with the hushed conversation. One of the dogs snorted loudly.

"Have you worked in other camps?"

"No," Bao admitted softly. He'd been a direct transfer from what was left of his unit. "But they get that big near bodies. There's plenty to eat." The other man cringed. Bao didn't comment further. The notion of rats feasting was far less gruesome than the reality of it. Unfortunately, Bao had already witnessed that. "Didn't a patrol go missing out this way?"

"No," the other argued, "you're thinking of the east route. I'm sure he just got lost again. You know how he is."

"Not…really. I've only spoken to him twice."

The other soldier shrugged. "That's not a surprise, he's in his head a lot. His fiancée's last letter said his mother was sick."

Bao hummed absently. "Old age or all the gas?"

"I think it's a bit of both…" The dogs morphed into rigid statues within seconds of each other. Their handlers followed their lead. The soldiers strained their ears, unable to hear what had caused the animals such immediate distress. Clucking his tongue, Bao moved forward through the underbrush with a grace born only to those native born to the territory.

As they moved forward, a quiet thundering rumbled on the horizon. Stray utterances of something decidedly not Vietnamese lingered in the air list mist. Bao waved his comrade to the right, veering sharply to the left himself. It was risky, but catching the enemy between them seemed the safest bet.

Quan had slowed his pace enough for Bao to keep pace. The man rested a hand on Quan's back, surprised to find the animal was shaking. He rubbed his thumb across the fur in small offering of reassurance. Their prey became louder, grumbling words Bao didn't understand, but the fear in the first voice was not restricted to definition.

Carefully, Bao tugged on the dog's rope collar. Never turning away from where the quarry lay, the dog sat. Bao removed the collar and watched as the dog bounded off with little more than a whisper of leaves. It only took a moment for a scream to reach Bao. He took it as a signal and charged.

The scene was chaos. Quan had latched onto a panicked man in a suit, who seemed to think that screaming would dislodge his attacker. He flailed his free arm as Quan jerked on the other, rending the flesh. A crumpled body lay off to the side, twisted oddly in the dirt. The other soldier was grappling with a tall, dark man. The bitch barked, sinking her fangs into the calf of her handler's attacker. He seemed the only threat.

"Surrender!" Bao snarled, cocking his gun. The enemy was undaunted. Bao caught a flicker of blue seconds before his comrade was flipped before the enemy. There was a crunch of bone. It distracted Bao long enough for the man to drop Bao's ally and kick out at his gun. A spurt of gunfire tore through the canopy before the gun jammed. Bao shook it and the gun backfired loudly. He dropped the gun, only aware of the sharp burning in his shoulder.

A distraught yelp heralded the thump of a body. The bitch hound was tossed roughly against his chest, knocking Bao flat on his back. The animal twitched but didn't stir. Another body, human this time, was piled on. The man groaned, and Bao took solace in the fact that neither of them were dead yet. Clenching his teeth, Bao struggled to see what fate had befallen his dog.

The large red dog still had a grip on his first victim, but the man was pinned to the ground. The animal's muzzle was already dripping blood when the enemy soldier approached.

Bao gave a mournful shout of "Quan!" before screwing his eyes shut, unwilling to watch the death of his ally. There was a pop, far too soft to have been a gunshot. The dog thumped to the ground beside Bao, whose eyes snapped open. The animal whimpered fiercely. His front leg was obviously broken, but he wasn't bleeding out. It was a good sign. On instinct, Bao grabbed the animal's uninjured forepaw to prevent it from going on the attack again. Quan licked at his hand.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Snake swore, bending down to inspect the damage. Sokolov gurgled at him like an infant, rolling his head to the side. Snake couldn't carry both of them out, even if he wasn't injured himself. He felt bad, fleetingly, that he was so relieved that Adam was the one with the better chance. It justified what he might have done anyway.

"Keep your eyes open, okay?"

"S-shoe. Microf-f-film."

"Microfilm?" Snake growled. "What microfilm?" He hadn't been brief on retrieving anything aside from people. He scrubbed a hand over his face in agitation, the taste of dirt and blood lingering in his mouth. "Sokolov!" snapped Snake, "Answer me!"

"KG…"Sokolov gasped, sounding winded. Cursing, Snake pressed his ear against the man's chest. Blood squished in his ear. A stray bullet had caught his side when Snake hadn't been paying attention. A lung collapsed. Blood was painted along Snake's ear and cheek when he pulled away.

"S-spy," Sokolov persisted with a grotesque wheeze. He arched up, trying to escape the claws of pain that had latched onto his chest. "Plans…"

Sokolov sucked in another squelching breath, oblivious to the bubbles that formed at his throat. Snake nodded, pulling off the man's shoe. Nothing. The other didn't yield anything either. Frowning, he glanced at Sokolov before prodding around on the inside of the shoes. Sure enough, one had a false bottom. With a soft mutter of thanks, Snake took the small square plastic container and pocketed it.

Sokolov's eyes had already fallen shut.

Snake ground his teeth, but rose to go fetch Adam. The man had been roughly dropped when the first man tore through the books. They were fortunate the dogs hadn't bothered to go for Adam's throat. Jack still needed to wring some answers from it. Or break it. But it was Adam, and he couldn't dwell on that until they were safe. He couldn't choke on the confused ball of emotions that lodge somewhere in his gut and festered like a cancer. There would be time to react when they weren't dead. Without any other options, Jack found himself bereft of any reaction.

"Let's go," he said to the form resting on his shoulders. Adam groaned, his fingers grabbing onto Snake's jacket weakly. Caught off guard, Snake froze.

"Always blue," Adam whispered, voice dry and cracking. It probably hurt to speak, but Jack hadn't heard a more beautiful sound in a long time. He bit back the nervous flutter in his chest, promising he'd dwell on this later.

"What?" Snake asked softly, daring to hope Adam spoke again. He waited, straining his ears against the silence. There was a quiet hitch in Adam's breathing.

"Hope…always has blue eyes."

Jack felt powerful and helpless all at once. He turned his head, taking a deep breath through his nose. Adam didn't smell any different than he had prior, but the knowledge that it was Adam made the old pain and sweat seem less suffocating. Snake would save them, and the world would right itself. And somehow, all those years they'd lost would be made up to them. Jack squeezed Adam's leg, vividly aware of the fever warmth he could feel through the pants.

Snake grunted and strode off. He wanted to catch up to the helicopter before the situation caught up to him.

Behind him, Bao kept his eyes tightly shut, breathing as lightly as he could. Even as the noise faded into the normal thrum of the jungle, he kept waiting. The bullet wasn't yet between his eyes. Quan tried to tug his paw away, prompting Bao to actually try to move. He didn't want to, not when it was so much easier pretending to feel safe under the crush of his comrades' bodies.


End file.
